“There, I told you so,” whispered Oliver, a few minutes later, “there’s the dawn coming and the sunrise.”
“Nonsense, it’s the moon; but look here, oughtn’t we to be facing the east now.”
“Yes, according to my calculations,” replied Oliver.
“Your calculating tackle wants regulating, for so sure as that’s the moon rising over yonder we’ve been working along due west.”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated Oliver, as he gazed round at the faint light on the horizon, “and I did try so hard. But that must be the dawn.”
“Then it has got a good, hard, firm, silvery rim to it. Look! That’s uncommonly like the moon, isn’t it?”
Panton pointed to where the edge of the pale orb came slowly above the horizon, looking big, and of a soft yellowish tarnished silver hue.
“Yes, it’s the moon sure enough,” said Oliver. “I’m all wrong. We shall be able to make out where the brig is, though, when it gets a little higher.”
“And the niggers will be able to make out where we are, and skewer us all with arrows, if we don’t look out. Hadn’t we better all lie down?”
“No, no, let’s aim at getting back on board. We shall be stronger there, and it will be a relief to Mr Rimmer to have us all back again safely. Better wait. I can’t hear the enemy now, and in a few minutes we may be able to see the brig. What do you say, Drew?”